The Spaces In Between
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: Post 4.15 "Olivia knows how hard it is, how taxing, to chase the possibility of a life that might be across the span of universes, if not time. Though the details might escape her, she understands."


A/N: Turn away now, if you want to keep your brain in the realm of solid matter. Mine has melted. Many Thanks to Chichuri for the beta and unwavering encouragement. Reviews feed my muse, and keep her happy (*v*)

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><p>The heat of the shower is comforting, the soft rhythmic pelleting of the warm water against her back relaxing as Olivia tilts her head back under the spray, closing her eyes and breathing in the steam coming off the cooler bathroom tiles. Her mind wanders – as it often does nowadays – back to her bedroom and the warm body still lying on her bed, taking up the empty spaces in her sheets – spaces made for him, and her, spaces that lay in waiting, holding vigil in the echoes of remembrance for something she almost lost. She'd made him stay in bed, this once, knowing how worn out he really was in light of recent events, having felt the tired caress of his limbs against her skin, full of soft fingertips and feather-light lips. Olivia knows how hard it is, how taxing, to chase the possibility of a life that might be across the span of universes, if not time. Though the details might escape her, she understands.<p>

She needs to drop by the office at some point later today, when the sun is farther down from the six – o' – clock place it currently occupies on the horizon, though all that remains to be done on Anson Carr's case consists of a few hours of mindless paperwork, her signature here and there. It won't take long to write up her report, the grisly details of yet another madman's stint at playing god firmly etched in the darkest corners of her mind, taking its place among the memories of horrors that plague her waking hours and threaten to choke her in her sleep. Memories that clash here and there even as they fade, in that pointless competition between lives lived and facts remembered that has become almost familiar. She has lost count, by now, of all the times she has been taken over, her experiences reshaped for the benefit of others. She needs to add herself to the list of perpetrators.

It pains her, the fading memory of his sorrow, the longing etched in the depths of his guarded stare, in the lines of his face, lines that were made for his smile, and his mirth. It pains her to have been the cause of his agony, and despair. It pains her, to even think of the possibility of never recovering these moments, of never feeling the weight of his arms around her in slumber again, or the comfort of his steadying breath on the back of her neck, the feel of his rough cheek against hers, or the sound of his voice in hushed, late-night conversation.

Olivia knows they need to talk, after last night. She told him, in the street with his gloved hands on her cheeks, how she thought he'd be gone for good, off to New York or Iraq, perhaps to Seattle or a different universe altogether by the time she'd gone back to the lab to find his belongings gone from their place on the floor, beside the high table in front of the reclining chair. She told him, and he shushed her with his lips and his hands and his smile. Telling her, without words, that there was nowhere else for him to go. No place he'd rather be than there, with her, in the biting cold of a late winter night. She doesn't know the how or why of his sudden change of mind, not yet, all words having been bypassed in favor of touch and tactile reassurance as they busied themselves with a thorough re-acquaintance of each other, but she knows he's here and, for now, that is all that matters. The rest will come later, fit back into place to fill the spider-web fissures that still remain of the void that took his place when he blinked out of her life and the face of the earth.

Her sigh fills the air, dissolves in the steam and the heat. She hears the bathroom's door open and smiles, listening to his unhurried rustling over the sound of the water that still rains down on her. There's the flush of the toilet, the sound of the dripping tap as it opens, the interrupted rushing of water as he washes his hands, and then silence. Olivia opens her eyes.

Peter stands there, hair tousled from sleep, his shoulder against the wall, his hand opening the shower curtain to his wandering stare, irises of hurricane blue running half-lidded over her shape without a hint of shame at his open admiration. The shower feels warmer, somehow.

" I thought I told you to sleep in," she says, running her hands down her hair without breaking away from his gaze, taunting.

Peter smiles back, "I have authority issues, as I'm sure you've noticed," his voice is rough, its cadence slow, lazy, unhurried.

"Oh, really?"

"Mhm…" he leans his head against the wall, wets his lips, "I need to talk to Broyles about some paperwork anyway."

She raises her eyebrow, curious.

"I need an actual identity, since I can't really go around with Agent Tim attached at the hip, can I?" he says, only half-jokingly. Olivia laughs and it's a low rumble amplified by the acoustics inherent to showers - accidental, but always there. That he hasn't had Tim as a supervisor for a while goes unmentioned. She knows there's also the underlying fact that he probably doesn't want to let her out of his sight, that he won't want to for a long, long time. She's not complaining.

"That'd be inconvenient, don't you think?"

"What, you want him all to yourself?"

She has the sudden urge to roll her eyes and thump him upside the head, but settles for chuckling as she turns around, exposing the expanse of her back to his hungry appraisal. She's missed this, the easy companionship, perhaps more than anything else. She can't even begin to imagine what it's been like for him.

"Are you getting in here or not?" Olivia looks at him over her shoulder, head tilted down, expectant.

Peter steps in behind her, presses his body tight against her back until only stray droplets slip between them, his hands firm on her hips. He's already hard against her buttocks, the fingers of his left hand digging slightly on the thin skin of her hipbone as the right skims over her side, his face tight against the slope of her neck. She lets her head fall back, bringing it to rest on his shoulder, giving him easier access as he nuzzles the side of her throat. He takes his time, runs his fingers over every inch of skin he can get to without surrendering their full- body contact, remapping her skin the way a cartographer might revise the world. There are differences, things that won't change as her memory does. Memories are intangible, more malleable than anything corporeal, fragile, brittle yet plastic like the brain, and doubly so, in her case.

Skin is different, skin heals but cannot forget, every freckle, every scar and bruise and scratch one more statement in the litany of hurts that make up her life. Everyone carries a history on their flesh, hidden in nooks and crannies and reserved for private eyes, for mirrors and lovers and the mind.

Olivia knows her body, knows what he'll find, what he'll miss. There are no needle marks on the crook of her elbow, no silvery scar on her hip to signal repositioning after a car accident. There's a new burn on her arm, among other things, an electrothermal, palm-sized scorch mark that bears the physical consequences of his return and what she now knows to be her part in it.

Peter reaches for the soap, holds her still with gentle pressure when she tries to turn around, keeping her back against his chest. He's rubbing his lathered hands over her shape, but there's nothing light about his touch. He's possessive now, a hint of desperation to the insistence of his flesh against her own where last night he was soft touches, slow caresses and tentative kisses as he let her take the lead. She wonders what has changed, worries even as her thoughts grow slower; harder to keep inside her head as he fondles her breasts, sucks on her pulse.

"What is it?" she manages, surprised that her voice manages to be louder than the sound of the shower, bringing her hand to his cheek, pulling his head away from her neck to look into his eyes, searching for something, anything.

He kisses her in answer, slanting his mouth against hers as he licks at her lips. It's messy and urgent, awkward in their position, and yet there's gentleness to it, a sense of measure that is everything Peter. Olivia drags her hand to the short hair at the back of his neck, behind his ear, and kisses back.

"I'm home," he says against her lips, between kisses, and it's barely a breath, no more than a whisper, but Olivia hears and holds him tighter against her. He's home. His hand slides down, down between her legs and he touches her. She spreads her legs, arches back against him as he slips his fingers inside her, thrusting, curling against her. She moans against his cheek, her breathing ragged, pulls at his hair hard enough to hurt and doesn't care. She knows he can handle it, likes it even.

The hand still massaging her breast shifts, drags down her hip and leaves her entirely as his chest lowers with the slightest bend of his knees. He thrusts upwards and enters her in one long, powerful stroke. She gasps, lacing her fingers with his at her hip in a white-knuckled grip, the arm he has put across her stomach her only safeguard against the strength of his hips, preventing her from crashing face-first against the shower wall ahead. He bites her shoulder softly and groans, withdraws, thrusts again, building a rhythm that's fast, insistent in contrast with the slow drag of his lips on her skin, and the smooth caress of his tongue against hers and God, he feels good.

"Bend forward," he says in her ear, his voice sandpaper on wood, letting go of her as she complies, splaying her hands on the wall. He puts one of his hands on top of hers, his longer fingers fitting in the spaces between her own and curling downwards into her palm, the other hand running slowly down the wet knobs of her spine as he shoves himself back into her, a perfect blend of slow over hard.

The change in angle allows her to push back in time with his thrusts, act as counterpoint to his rhythm. It also allows him to push deeper, harder. Olivia can barely hear the water anymore, with the rush of blood in her ears, the pounding of her heart against her ribs, the sound of his moans and hers.

It doesn't take long after that, the snap of his hips stuttering, straining, trying to keep steady even as she comes forever, the waves of her pleasure rolling back to crash against him with her hips. As always, he follows.

After, Peter's knees tremble against the back of her legs, his fingers tight around her own as he drapes himself across her back, resting his scruffy cheek against the top of her shoulder, lungs straining for breath. His weight is comforting, if a little too much for her rubbery legs.

"Don't think I can stand much longer," she warns him, out of breath, a smile in her voice as she pushes to straighten under his weight, finally turning to face him. He steps closer, pressing her back against the wall with deliberate slowness, still feeling the need to give her an out after all this time. She finds it endearing, if a little absurd by this point.

The press of his weight and her back against the wall keeps them standing, and she loops her hands around his waist. She kisses him, slow this time, relaxed. He nuzzles her cheek with the tip of his nose, kisses her jaw.

"I missed you," he says. _I love you_, he means.

"I know." She loves him too, but then again, he knows that, "Let's not do any more vanishing acts, okay?"

He nods.

"Who knew Houdini had it right, huh?" he says, his mind sidetracking her words in ways and paths only he understands.

Olivia laughs. Believing has _always_ been the trick, in the end.


End file.
